


of night and light and the half-light

by hito



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Mating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:56:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hito/pseuds/hito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>derekstiles fill: Evil hunters have dosed Derek with a drug that severely lessens his control. He's locked in a basement with Stiles and the full moon rises in an hour. Stiles is gonna be wolf food if they don't think of something fast. But there's the whole thing about a werewolf's instinctive refusal to harm his mate...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is currently being updated at [derekstiles](http://derekstiles.dreamwidth.org/1514.html?thread=30442#cmt30442) about twice a week, and will be updated here once a month or so.

_i. and it's you and it's me_

“My dad’s on his way,” Stiles says confidently, but Harmon laughs, a mocking sound, and shoves the barrel of his rifle into Stiles’ back, forcing him to stumble onwards through the woods. It’s still early, but Stiles hasn’t been out here during a full moon in a long time. 

“He was expecting me. And he knows where I am, he’s the one who remembered this place, he’s going to come straight out here.” 

“You don’t actually expect me to believe your father is going to be expecting to see you at that fundraising dinner?” Harmon speeds up as their destination comes into view. Stephen is athletic enough to keep up with his father easily, and Stiles has never resented him for it more than right now, tripping over a root and going down on his knees hard. Stephen yanks him back to his feet and shoves him forward. “You are right about one thing, though. He will find you, when he gets around to looking, because I’m going to leave your phone just a few metres away. He won’t have any trouble locating you. It’s just a shame it will be tomorrow before that happens.” 

“What? Why is that a shame? What’s going on, what’s going to—“ 

“Shut up,” Stephen sneers. “You’ll have plenty of time to worry about it when you get down there.” 

He laughs, and the pleasure in it makes Stiles anxious. 

“What—“ he starts anxiously, but Mr Harmon snarls, “Shut up,” and although he’s the one with his finger on the trigger, Stiles has his mouth open to ask again when he instructs, “Stephen, get that.” 

Stephen steps over to the storm cellar and tugs at the heavy beams securing it shut. Stiles would have trouble getting that open from this side, never mind the other. 

The hinges squeak as the doors swing open. There’s light at the bottom of the steps, an oil lamp casting flickering shadows over the stone walls and the bare wooden table. 

There’s a figure slumped in the far corner, but it’s shadowed there, and Stiles can’t see who it is until the flame flickers and flares bright again, light stretching to reveal Derek. 

“Oh,” Stiles says, startled, and then he shuts his mouth and tries not to give anything away. 

“I’m sorry I’m not able to be here for this,” Stephen says, “but I’ll be thinking of you.” 

“Down,” Harmon says, and backhands him so hard that the next push from the rifle sends Stiles tripping into the opening of the cellar. 

Stiles is fairly sure he hits his head on the way in, but his head is already ringing from the slap, so he can’t be certain. He manages to cling to the doors somehow, prevent himself from tumbling down the steps, but then Stephen is calling, “Be seeing you, Hale,” and swinging the doors closed and Stiles has to scramble to get his feet under him before his hands are dislodged as they slam into place over his head. 

He hears the scraping as the bolts of wood slide home, but he can’t be too worried about it now that he knows what’s waiting for him down here. 

“Stiles,” Derek says urgently, just that, and Stiles gives him time to speak because he’s still having a little trouble focussing, but there’s nothing more. 

“Hey dude,” Stiles says, sliding down the steps on his ass. He ends up sprawled on the dirt floor on his hands and knees, and he decides to stay where he is, cheek against the earth, because there’s no way he’s crawling in front of Derek, and even crawling feels like more trouble than it’s worth at the moment. 

“Stiles,” Derek says again, and it sounds like a rebuke this time. He gets to his feet and comes towards Stiles slowly. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, “you’re not chained up.” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“It was unnecessary.” 

“Why didn’t you—“ Stiles starts, and the outrage propels him into an upright position, even if he is still sitting on his ass in the dirt. “Why didn’t you escape when they opened the doors? Why did you let them stick me down here?” 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says. 

“That isn’t an answer,” Stiles says, and he can feel a trickle of fear at the back of his mind, but that’s ridiculous, because there’s nothing down here, only Derek. 

“Harmon said there was something down here that was going to hurt me,” Stiles says, and tries to watch Derek while he says it, but the room is still spinning gently and he can’t make much out. “But it’s just you, it isn’t even Scott or Jackson. He just doesn’t know how much control you have, right? He doesn’t know.” 

Things are settling into place, and Derek’s face is as blank as usual. “No,” he says. “Harmon knows how much control I have.” 

“So what was he talking about?” 

“He was talking about me,” Derek says. “They drugged me to get me here. It’s still in my system. It weakened me, probably to compensate for removing all my control. When the moon rises I’m not going to be able to stop myself from killing you.” 

He lets that hang in the air, like he’s expecting Stiles to have some kind of response to that other than the scream he can feel building in his lungs, and he swallows that back because when they get out of here Derek would never let him forget it. 

If they don’t get out of here there’s no point in making things worse. 

“If it hadn’t also weakened me I would have killed them,” Derek says, like he thinks he’s offering Stiles comfort, which—isn’t entirely inaccurate. It’s a nice thought. “But I wouldn’t have made it past the gun.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says, and tries not to panic. He’s better at that nowadays; he’s had so much practice at it. “Okay, we have, what, an hour?” Derek nods. “That’s time, we have time. We can—“ He makes a lift-the-roof-off-this-place gesture at the heavy wooden doors overhead, but Derek is already shaking his head. 

“No. I’m not strong enough.” 

“Okay,” Stiles tries, “so they’re heavy, but this has been out here for decades, and the Gruber place was torn down years ago, so nobody’s been doing repairs on them or anything, the wood has to be rotting by now, right?” 

“I already tried them.” 

“But I’m here now!” Stiles says, and uses Derek’s hand to pull himself to his feet. “I can help!” 

He’s at the top of the stairs before Derek, but he waits for Derek to join him before setting his shoulder to the wood. Stiles can’t feel any movement when he strains, just pressure on his shoulder; Derek is weakened, but he’s still stronger than Stiles, so that doesn’t mean anything. 

“Nothing,” Derek says, dropping back in frustration, and the lack of assistance from Derek doesn’t lead to any increase in weight on Stiles’ part, so he backs off as well. 

“We just have to keep trying,” Stiles says. “We’ll get it, we just have to try.” 

They do, for what seems like hours, but eventually Derek gives up and sits on the steps, leaning back on his elbows. 

“Hey,” Stiles protests. 

“It isn’t going to work,” Derek says. His voice sounds tired, and Stiles can’t see his features up here, but he can smell sweat and he doesn’t think it’s all coming from him. 

“What time is it?” Stiles asks. 

Derek doesn’t wear a watch, but he always knows where the moon is, so he says, “Thirty-four minutes,” answering Stiles’ real question. 

“We can—“ 

Stiles can’t think of anything else. If the walls weren’t stone he’d suggest they try tunnelling out of here with the steel button on his jacket, but it takes people years to escape from prison that way, right? Even with the lack of basket-weaving and yard-time in Stiles’ immediate future he thinks it would take him longer than a half-hour, but it doesn’t even matter, because the walls are _stone_. 

“Are you going to be this calm the whole time?” Stiles asks. “Did whatever they give you make you go bear? Because the way you’re going you might just sleep through the whole thing and I’m not going to complain if you do.” 

“I won’t be calm for much longer.” 

“There has to be something in here we can use,” Stiles says. 

“There’s a bottle of water, but I already drank half of it,” Derek says. “You want the rest?” 

“Don’t be nice to me,” Stiles says shakily, and he feels Derek shrug beside him. 

“There’s the lantern,” Derek says after a minute’s silence. “Oil, matches and the table. We could set the table on fire, but I’m not actually sure that would be a kinder death.” 

“This is not the way we should be thinking,” Stiles says, horrified, but Derek just shrugs again. 

“Setting your clothes on fire would be quicker—“ 

“Sometimes you remind me of your uncle, you know that?” Stiles says, and Derek falls silent. 

It isn’t long until Derek is down the stairs pacing, going from corner to corner to corner, again and again. 

“Maybe you’re stronger now,” Stiles ventures. “We could try the doors again.” 

“I’m not stronger,” Derek says, still pacing. “Just more aggressive.” 

“Oh, boy, that’s just great.” 

“You should stay where you are.” 

“Because after the moon rises you’re not going to want to play with your food?” 

Derek shrugs. 

“Fucking fantastic,” Stiles says, fighting the impulse to pull his knees into his body and start rocking. “That’s just fucking—“ 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says again. 

Stiles thinks it might be the only time Derek has ever apologised to him, and he wants to tell him it’s okay, but why start lying to each other now? 

“It isn’t your fault,” he says, and, “There has to be something! There has to be something we can do!” 

He knows there isn’t, but he’s desperate; he can feel the terror mounting with each lengthening stride Derek takes, and maybe he does want Derek to lie to him, maybe that would be okay. 

“No,” Derek says. “Well—“ 

Stiles’ heart jumps into his throat. “ _Well_?” he squeaks. “Well _what_?” 

“Nothing,” Derek says, and when Stiles starts scrambling down the stairs he holds up a hand to stop him. “It isn’t an option.” 

“It isn’t an option?” Stiles is suddenly furious with Derek, for the first time tonight. “I don’t think you get to decide that any option which would result in your not _eating_ me is off the table, do you? I’m sorry if it’s unpalatable or whatever, but you can fucking choke on it, okay?” 

“It isn’t unpalatable,” Derek says, coming to rest in front of Stiles, perched halfway up the flight of steps. “It isn’t an option, it isn’t something you would want to do even—“ 

“Fucking tell me,” Stiles says, shaking. “ _Derek_.” 

Derek looks up at him, backlit by the flickering lamp, and all Stiles can see are black eyes and shadows. 

“A werewolf won’t harm its mate,” Derek says, and Stiles’ teeth start chattering. “I don’t have a mate. And you—“ 

Stiles’ teeth have never done this before, and he kind of wants to bite down on the sleeve of his jacket to stop it, but it’s all he can do to suck in enough air to postpone the need to breathe for another couple of seconds, because that doesn’t feel like an autonomic response right now, because his body is not under his control but his lungs still aren’t working properly, and he feels like he might faint and his lungs would just let him die, and he can’t faint anyway, because by the time he woke up Derek would have eaten him. 

And suddenly he’s breathing again and everything is going to be okay. 

“It isn’t an option,” Derek repeats. 

“You’re the alpha,” Stiles snaps. “You let yourself get captured. You’re supposed to protect me. You _owe_ me this. You don’t get to say no.” 

“I’m not saying no,” Derek says harshly. “Don’t bother complaining afterwards.” 

“Oh, I will complain all I want, because I will be _alive_ to do so, no thanks to you, I can’t believe you weren’t going to tell me about—“ 

“Get down here,” Derek growls, and Stiles shuts up fast. 

“Uh,” he equivocates. 

He’s not having second thoughts or anything, he just—hasn’t really had enough time for first thoughts yet. 

“What exactly is involved in this mating deal?” 

“It doesn’t matter, does it? We’re doing it anyway.” 

Stiles stands up, because Derek is right, and they don’t really have time for this, but—

“But what do we have to do?” 

“Fuck,” Derek says. 

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Oh, that was what I thought it might be, I thought—that might be—involved.” 

He hadn’t thought at all, really, and he feels his face threaten to crumple, so, “Okay,” he says, “okay,” and hurries down the stairs. 

Derek takes a step towards him and stops, waiting for Stiles to come forward. 

“So, how aggressive are you feeling right now?” Stiles asks casually. 

“I’m fine.” 

Stiles can’t tell if he’s lying. Derek makes an impatient noise when Stiles remains hovering just out of reach, undecided and feeling renewed fear. 

“It will be worse the closer to moonrise we get.” 

“Great,” Stiles says, slinking towards Derek reluctantly. “That’s very reassuring to me, I really appreciate the trouble you’re taking here—“ 

“I am,” Derek says, and his hands are suddenly tight around Stiles’ arms, hauling him in. 

He bites at Stiles’ mouth until it opens and then his tongue is inside it, rough and fast. Stiles can’t keep up. 

“Uh,” Stiles says, just to feel like he’s participating, but Derek doesn’t give him the chance to speak, and the next thing he knows he’s on the ground, the shock of the fall reverberating through his body and Derek’s hand under his head. 

He’d be more annoyed about it if Derek wasn’t tugging at his shirt, growling when the buttons don’t pop quickly enough for him. 

Stiles gets the feeling he’s going to have to pick his battles tonight. 

Derek is licking his chest, wide swipes of tongue. It doesn’t feel like foreplay; Derek doesn’t seem to be aiming for anything in particular, not focussing on Stiles’ nipples or working down to his pants or teasing, or anything that Stiles understands. 

He’s sucking the skin above Stiles’ ribs when his hands settle on Stiles’ fly. Stiles almost bucks Derek off, but Derek just shoves him down and puts more weight on Stiles’ legs. 

“Blowjob?” Stiles offers without much hope. His voice is a croak. 

“No,” Derek says, pulling at Stiles’ pants until Stiles kicks them off himself just to get it over with. 

And then Stiles is naked on the floor in front of Derek, but Derek is back on him before he has time to worry about it. 

“Are you taking your clothes off?” Stiles asks, shivering as denim moves against his skin. “Take your clothes off.” 

Derek snarls at Stiles, an animal sound, and Stiles can’t stop the tremors racing through him, because moonrise is soon, he knows it is even if he can’t tell when, and he hopes it isn’t too close to do this. 

Derek doesn’t back off much as he struggles with his clothing, and Stiles is shoving at it too, peeling Derek’s tshirt up his torso until it gets stuck under his arms. Anxiety is bubbling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Come on,” Stiles says when Derek settles back down on him, using the weight of his legs to press Stiles’ apart, and if Stiles gasps when Derek’s cock rubs against his own, well, that’s nice, but it doesn’t make anything else go away. “Come on.” 

Derek gets up and moves away, and Stiles panics, useless legs scrambling, trying to get him on his feet so he can follow. “Derek! What are you doing?” 

And Derek comes back, but it’s just to lean over Stiles and shove him flat again, pinning Stiles’ arms over his head when he scrabbles at Derek’s back. 

“Stay here,” he says, voice almost too deep to make out. 

He goes away again, and the seconds Stiles spends waiting for him to return stretch. 

A battered tin can hits the ground beside Stiles and he picks it up, but Derek grabs it, unscrewing it and pulling Stiles’ legs apart again so he can pour it straight onto Stiles’ ass. 

“Fuck,” Stiles says, blinking at the darkness above. 

When Derek’s fingers slide through the oil Stiles reaches down to slap them away without thinking. Derek’s other hand clenches on Stiles’ thigh. 

“Okay!” Stiles says, “Okay, okay,” and he reaches down to the place Derek’s hand was and pushes his own finger in. 

It takes a little bit of work to get it inside, and Derek is rubbing at his hand, trying to hurry him along. It feels okay, nothing too interesting either way, but then Derek makes a short sound that sounds like a bark and shoves his own finger in alongside Stiles’. 

“Ah,” Stiles bites out, trying to sit up, but that just makes it more intense and he drops back, legs rubbery. 

Derek works his finger deep quickly, and when Stiles says, “Ah!” again it’s because the sudden pleasure is such a surprise. 

“Okay, just—“ he says, but he doesn’t know what he should ask for and Derek is already sliding in another finger. 

The touch of Derek’s tongue on his cock startles Stiles, and it’s a pleasant distraction, but it’s not the way he’d want it, just quick licks, maybe getting the taste of him. 

Stiles tries moving with Derek’s fingers, but it’s a tight fit inside him, soft skin clinging, and his own finger isn’t making him feel good the same way Derek’s are anyway, so he just groans and drags it out, body clenching down on Derek’s fingers, still shoving deep. 

Derek seems to take that as some sort of signal, removing his fingers and grabbing the oil again, emptying the bottle over his own cock. 

Stiles is shaking all over, and he isn’t even sure why, doesn’t know what to do with any of it. 

“Derek,” he says, as Derek turns him onto his belly with slick hands, gets his knees under him, but Derek is growling, quiet and constant, and he doesn’t reply. Stiles feels like he’s just been slapped down a flight of stairs again. He feels as disoriented and strange. 

Derek is pressing against him again, but it isn’t his fingers this time. Derek moves into him steadily, and it isn’t fast or rough, but Stiles’ nails try to dig into the earth under him. It’s too hard packed, and Stiles forces himself to stop because his nails are going to tear. 

“Derek,” he says, just to give himself a little relief, but it doesn’t work, so he says it again, fading into babble as he feels Derek’s body against his ass. 

Derek pulls out straight away, snaps deep again immediately, and Stiles is jolted hard enough that he reaches behind him to try and grab at Derek. 

He can’t make it that far, but when he winds himself back down his body feels looser. 

Stiles knows Derek is making a lot of noise, but he can’t hear it above his own sounds, the loud rush of white in his head. 

His fingers glance against the cool stone of the steps and he tries to scramble up, tries to use them to prop himself up so he’ll stop sliding across the floor, but Derek yanks him back and Stiles knows he’s wailing, can’t stop. 

It’s too much, it still hurts, but it feels good too, Derek’s cock making him feel the way his fingers had, making him feel better, and Stiles can’t help tightening up around it, trying to drag it deeper even though he thinks that would hurt more, thinks this is as deep as they’re going to get anyway. 

He keeps doing it. 

And then Derek’s hand is on Stiles’ cock, stripping it almost violently, and Stiles is coming before he can process the sensation. 

He’s gasping and helpless under Derek when he’s aware of himself again, arm stuck between his head and the hard stone. 

He’s too drained to do anything but lie there until Derek’s cock hits too well and he’s crying out while his whole body spasms. 

And then Derek’s teeth are in his neck, _fuck_ , this is not what he agreed to, this—Derek didn’t tell him, if this is what he meant. 

Stiles can’t tell if Derek has broken skin, but Derek is coming inside him with a howl, and Stiles can feel the moon moving in the sky, its slow, determined trajectory. 

When Derek collapses against his back Stiles shoves him off, forcing himself onto his side so he can look Derek in the face while his ragged voice asks, “Did you turn me?” 

“No,” Derek grinds out, but Stiles lets his trembling fingers trace the place Derek had bitten down, over and over until the touch feels meaningless. He can’t tell. 

He can feel the moon creep closer. 

He lies on his back beside Derek until the change begins. 

*

It’s a long night. 

Stiles drowses now and then, but he spends most of his time watching the creature he’s trapped with. 

It prowls their tiny cell. It takes a couple of runs at the entrance, but it doesn’t have any more luck than they’d had earlier. It howls sometimes, for no reason Stiles can determine, and it doesn’t speak a word all night. 

Stiles can’t think of it as Derek. 

He’s seen Derek change into this thing before, but never at the full moon. It had always been possible for Derek to switch back whenever he had wanted to, whenever the crisis had passed; now he can’t even speak. 

Stiles hasn’t been afraid of Derek in a long time, and he knows he doesn’t have to be now, will never have to be afraid of Derek again, but he is. 

He doesn’t turn though, and he supposes that’s something. 

It isn’t enough, but it’s better than nothing. 

The lamp sputters and dies two hours before dawn. Stiles doesn’t bother relighting it. He falls asleep trying to ignore the frustrated snarls echoing around him. 

A muffled curse wakes him up, and he blinks in the darkness. His eyes feel fuzzy with sleep. 

“Derek?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Derek says, and trips over another step, cursing again. 

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks. “Can you not see, is your eyesight not working?” 

“The drug is out of my system. My sight is fine, but the sun hasn’t risen yet.” 

“So you can get us out of here?” 

Stiles gets to his feet and starts shuffling to where he thinks the table is, but then his body wakes up and all his aches start clamouring for attention, and he remembers they’d used the last of the oil up. 

“Stiles!” Derek snaps when his feet get tangled in his clothes and he stumbles. “Wait until I get the doors open.” 

The fabric is soft in his hands, and it takes him a minute to work out that it’s Derek’s tshirt. He drops it back to the floor. 

Wood splinters, and Derek heaves the doors open with a crash. The sky is just a slightly bluer patch of darkness, but Derek doesn’t stumble on his way back down to Stiles. 

“Here,” Derek says, throwing Stiles his clothes and getting dressed himself. 

It takes Stiles a little longer, because he has trouble figuring out what’s what and whether he’s putting his jeans on backwards, and also because Derek is naked beside him and Stiles knows Derek can see him. 

It feels weirder than it had before. He’s glad it’s still dark. 

“Come on,” Derek says impatiently. “They might be coming back.” 

That gets Stiles moving, but his shirt is shredded to rags and he wasn’t wearing anything under it. “I don’t have anything,” he says. 

He can hear movement, but he doesn’t know what’s happening until Derek presses cloth into his hands. 

“Put that on. Hurry up.” 

Stiles hesitates, but it’s going to be cold outside at this time of night. “Fine,” he says. “But only because it’s your fault my shirt is ruined.” 

“It’s not my fault!” Derek protests. “Why do you keep saying everything is my fault!” 

“Uh, because you _tore it off my body_?” Stiles says incredulously. 

Derek huffs in defeat. “Come on,” he snaps again, and pulls Stiles up the stairs and out into the chilly air. 

“Do you think they’re in the woods?” Stiles asks quietly. 

Derek is still holding onto his arm, picking a quick path towards the trees. “Could be,” he says. “But I think they would’ve waited until light to come back. They might not even be coming back themselves, they might be sending your father.” 

“To find you in a locked room with my mangled body.” 

“That’s a better plan,” Derek says. “They’re probably not coming back.” His voice is still low, though. 

“Yeah, that’s what they said—“ Stiles stumbles, and pain shoots through his hip. “Fuck! Where are we going?” 

“Home.” 

“To your place, right, are you planning to walk? Because I’m not walking, that’s a really long way. Let’s go back, come on, I think they left my phone back there.” 

Derek is reluctant, but Stiles keeps tugging, and he has to go along. 

“There,” Derek says, after a minute, though Stiles doesn’t see anything until Derek presses the power button. 

“Thanks,” Stiles says, taking the phone, and trying not to think about any of it, the aches that aren’t going away, the headache he still has, what’s happened to him and what’s going to happen, what’s about to happen. He wishes he knew what that was. 

He calls Scott. 

*

“What the _actual fuck_ ,” Scott says through his cranked-down window when he pulls up by the side of the road. 

“Shut up,” Stiles says. 

“Uh, _no_. You got me out of bed at ass o’clock in the morning, you don’t get to tell me to shut up.” 

The sky had been lightening quickly to grey as Derek towed Stiles through the woods to the road; it’s bright enough now that he can see the bruises on his skin. He hopes Scott is too tired to be observant. 

“Why is Derek _naked_?” 

Or distracted, that’s good too. 

“He isn’t _naked_!” Stiles protests. “He just—lost his shirt.” 

“How did he lose his shirt?” 

Derek gets into the passenger seat and looks at Stiles through the open window. 

“Funny story,” Stiles says. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.” 

He knows he winces when he gets into the car. He sees Scott frowning at him in the rear-view mirror. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks, which is more specific than Stiles is used to from him. 

“Nothing,” Stiles says. He knows he’s going to have to tell Scott, but it isn’t a conversation he’s willing to have while he’s wearing Derek’s clothing. 

Derek flips on the heat. 

When they’re half-way home Scott asks, “Are you okay?” and Stiles doesn’t know if he’s lying when he says that he is. 

Derek watches Stiles climb awkwardly out of the car when they arrive. He ducks to look at Derek through the window and has to wait while Derek lowers it. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says. “Uh, later. I’ll call you later.” 

Derek raises his eyebrows, looks past Stiles at the house where his father is sleeping the blessed sleep of the innocent. “Okay,” he says, and it doesn’t sound doubtful, but Stiles finds himself rushing to reassure anyway. 

“I’m just going to go to sleep now. I can do that, right? Hunters aren’t going to attack me in my bed or anything?” 

“You should come home with me,” Derek says. 

“ _Why_?” Scott asks. 

“I’ll be fine. My dad’s the sheriff! They wouldn’t do that. So I’ll go to sleep and I’ll call you when I wake up.” Stiles’ hand tightens on the car door, itching to reach inside. “I don’t know why I’m saying this.” 

“Go to sleep,” Derek says. “Call me when you wake up.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says, “yeah.” And he lets go of the door and steps back. 

It takes a little effort to get to his front door, and when he’s there he can’t help looking over his shoulder. Scott's watching, like Stiles is Allison getting home at the end of a long night, and Scott has to make sure Stiles can get the key into the door. Stiles brandishes his key at Scott before he shoves it into the lock, and Scott waves and starts the car. Stiles doesn't watch them leave.

“ _Drunk girl_ ,” Stiles mutters at his door. “I’m not a drunk girl.” 

But he’s relieved when he’s inside with the door locked behind him, and he’s even more relieved that he doesn’t disturb his dad getting to bed. 

That’s the important thing right now, keeping things normal for his dad. That’s all that matters. 

If he thinks about anything else he won’t get any sleep at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been months since I wrote for this, but this one is next up, so I'm catching up here.

“Why does Ben Harmon think Hale is beating you?” Stiles’ dad asks.

“Zuh?” Stiles questions, lifting his head from the pillow. His eyes are still closed, the sun through the window nothing more than spotty irritation on his eyelids.

“Harmon,” his dad says impatiently. “Said I shouldn’t trust Hale around you. Said he was a more direct threat than I knew. I’m choosing to believe that he was referring to physical violence, because that I can deal with.”

“Dad,” Stiles mutters, shoving his head under the pillow. Blessed, blessed darkness. “It’s too early for this.” His voice slurs, halfway back to sleep already.

His dad yanks the pillow away, and Stiles almost topples onto the floor lunging after it.

“Get the hell out of bed,” his dad says. “It’s almost noon.” He stops in the doorway to threaten, “We are _talking_ about this!”

Usually Stiles’ dad’s threats aren’t all that effective, but usually he’s the one taking an extra shift to avoid awkward conversations, which has worked out pretty well for Stiles in the past; after a certain point he swallowed his embarrassment and started the conversations himself whenever he wanted his dad to vanish for a while, stumbling back in after the crisis had passed with fumbling, non-specific reassurances of caring and support.

Stiles didn’t mind so much, because it was nice to hear, and because very few of the conversations his dad couldn’t take were on topics that were actually relevant to Stiles.

Stiles has never really had much going on in his personal life that would’ve disquieted his father.

 _Before_.

Stiles kind of wants to sleep until dinner, but his dad took the pillow away with him, so he sits up.

He wonders if he can call Derek before he goes downstairs.

*

He has a shower instead, because he’s dusty and sweaty from the cellar, and he’s convinced his dad’s going to _know _somehow, if he doesn’t wash it all away.__

It’s a good plan, he thinks, but then he gets caught on his own reflection, water running unheeded in the background, eyes stuck on the purple bruises blooming, on the raw scrapes on his knees.

He doesn’t remember getting them, doesn’t remember the ground being that rough when Derek was fucking him on it, but he supposes there’d been a lot going on.

He tries to get the worst of the dirt out, but he needs antiseptic, probably, and his dad would want to know why, so he tables it, has his shower, and picks a shirt that hides all the marks Derek left behind.

*

“Why is Ben Harmon talking to you?” Stiles asks, though he knows. “He hates you!”

“Exactly!” his dad says. “Why did he track me down at the fundraiser to warn me that my son is in danger from his associates? You know what associate means, Stiles!”

“I do not associate with Derek—Derek doesn’t have any—he’s not a thug, dad, come on!”

“Nothing to say he can’t be both,” his dad says.

“But he isn’t, Harmon’s just trying to cause trouble, Mr Argent warned you about him, right?”

Maybe Stiles should talk to Mr Argent about this. He wouldn’t tell Stiles’ dad, Stiles is pretty sure; he’s never told Stiles’ dad anything it was vital for him to know before, why would he start now?

And Mr Argent might have some idea what Stiles should do about this, and not in the bullshit, useless authority-figure, _just-deal-with-your-crappy-fucking-life_ way, either. Mr Argent might be able to help Stiles. There might be something he could do about this.

It’s something to think about, anyway. Maybe he’ll ask Derek about it later, maybe Derek will have some ideas himself, except that Stiles doesn’t really want to know what Derek thinks about any of this, because—

Because obviously.

That would be weird.

Stiles shifts, and his dad says slowly, “Chris has warned me about a lot of things.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says absently. “He does that. He’s a worrier.”

A worrier who sometimes beheads things to buy himself a little peace of mind, so Stiles should probably be careful how he presents his dilemma: can’t have anyone losing their head over this.

Especially not Stiles.

You never really know how Mr Argent is going to react to these things.

He’s still the only real expert Stiles has access to, though, so—

“Didn’t you have to pay into _Bradley’s_ last night?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah,” his dad says, baffled. “He donated so’s he could tell me to watch out for you.”

“That wasn’t what he was telling you,” Stiles says, stomach growing cold, remembering Stephen Harmon’s jeering laughter, remembering his father calculating how best to lead the Sheriff to his son’s bloody corpse.

He wonders what they’re doing now.

“What did he say to you, exactly?” he asks, and although he thinks he might need to know, it feels like he’s rubbernecking. 

“Not much,” his dad says. “I already told you. I wouldn’t have paid him any attention if I hadn’t already noticed.” 

“Noticed what?” Stiles squeaks. 

His dad clears his throat. “He said his son had noticed you’d been spending a lot of time with the Hale kid, which I have noticed myself, and I want you to know I have concerns.” 

Stiles waves off his father’s foolish _concerns_ , because it’s way too late for that kind of thing, and Stiles has other things to worry about right now anyway. 

Plus, if he doesn’t acknowledge it, maybe it’s like it never happened. 

“The son was concerned Hale was leading you down the garden path to trouble, but Harmon was more concerned that I was letting it go on under my nose, threatened to go to Argent with it.” He’s frowning, face turning ugly at the remembrance of the slight. 

“Huh,” Stiles says thoughtfully, then clocks his dad’s raised eyebrows and set face. “Nothing’s going on!” he says hastily. “I mean, as far as the hunters go, sure, but nothing more than you know already. Nothing to get worked up over.” Nothing Stiles is going to allow him the _opportunity_ to get worked up over, anyway. “I just think it’s interesting that Stephen’s trying to get me in trouble with Derek. They don’t even know Scott’s a werewolf, so why not Allison?” 

“Not reassuring me, son.” 

“Not that he would have any reason to choose me,” Stiles continues airily. “Far more reason to go for Allison, really, so it’s suspicious behaviour.” It isn’t, of course; they had just been setting the scene for self-recrimination with the advent of Stiles’ death. Setting themselves up as oracles, too, sounds like. “I wonder if there’s some reason the Harmons wouldn’t want to tackle Argent with that?” 

“Because Argent would have gone after Hale with a shotgun?” his dad suggests. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says bleakly. “They did figure on that, I bet.” 

“I’m glad Harmon didn’t get the votes,” his dad confides. “I’d be worried right now if Argent had given his support.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I’d be worried if—“ 

If he’d died; if his father had taken his death and blamed himself, blamed Derek; if his father had killed Derek, effectively removing himself as contender for mayor and leaving the Harmons without any serious local opposition to their plans. 

It’s some consolation that if any of that had happened, Stiles wouldn’t be the one who had to deal with it. 

“I’m glad it didn’t happen,” Stiles says. 

“Yeah,” his dad says, smiling a little. “Your old man’s doing okay.” 

“If you want to call what you’re doing ‘okay’,” Stiles says, grinning, and watches his dad’s smile spread. 

*

For once, his father isn’t working through lunch, and by the time Stiles escapes the kitchen table and his dad’s voluminous complaints about Stiles’ apparently dictatorial pronouncements with regards to the health of his arteries and his potential—potential _only_ —continued survival, he is _itching_ to talk to Derek. 

It’s still early, and he knows he has no reason to worry, knows the Harmons are probably just figuring out he’s still alive, knows there’s half the day to while away before the sun sets and he has to—has to—

Something. 

Whatever. 

Frustrated, he spends half an hour texting Scott, long after the conversation veers away from pointed questions Stiles dodges like a mother, settling down into the usual: speculation on what Scott’s mom will make for dinner, long contemplation on which shade of blue would best complement Allison’s eyes. 

Stiles went through kindergarten with Scott, and would have sworn he didn’t know the difference between blue and indigo, but he’s making a pretty good stab at it, throwing out words like _peacock_ and _petrol_ and _prussian_ willy-nilly. Stiles is pretty sure prussian blue wouldn’t do _anything_ for Allison, but he’s too proud of Scott to quibble. 

He’s not quite surprised when his phone goes off and _Ed Rooney_ is flashing up at him, but he doesn’t decide that until he’s thrown the phone across the room trying to get the Derek of it all away from him, and by then he’s already diving after it. 

“Hey,” he says, when he’s sure his voice will be steady. 

He’s not sure Derek has ever called him before. He’s not sure why he even has Derek’s number saved—he could get peremptory texts that look like Stiles’ nana’s cat wrote them just as well without the identifier, and it would probably be less embarrassing for all involved, since Stiles’ nana’s cat is almost as old as Stiles’ nana, and can still type better than Derek. 

That will be Derek’s next name, Stiles decides. _Nana’s Cat_. 

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks sharply, before the satisfaction from that decision has time to spread through Stiles, and he knows his heart-rate is spiking again. 

“You’re wrong!” Stiles says, then, “Nothing’s wrong, jesus!” 

“Okay,” Derek says slowly, “calm down,” and Stiles can feel himself doing it, can feel his shoulders relax and his breathing even out, can feel his anger mount. 

“Stop,” he says. 

“I’m not doing anything,” Derek says, sounding bewildered. Stiles closes his eyes against it. “You should come over.” Stiles’ hand clenches around his phone. “You were supposed to be here already.” 

Explanations and excuses are bubbling up in Stiles’ throat, but he restrains himself. “I didn’t say I would come over. I don’t have to come over.” 

“No,” is all Derek says, so Stiles says, “Fine,” and pretends that isn’t relief he’s feeling, isn’t eagerness, and they stay on the line until Stiles realises he’s going to have to hang up if he doesn’t want to end up a bloody smear on the road before he even gets to the end of his street. 

And after all the effort they put into keeping him alive. 

*

Derek is waiting at the door when Stiles pulls up, and Stiles stays in the car for a second, watching Derek curiously. He gets out when he sees Derek twitch towards him, because he doesn’t actually want Derek to come down here and pull him out of the car and inside the house, not at all, not even one little bit, even though maybe he is wondering what would happen if he made Derek do that, but that doesn’t mean he _wants_ it, he’s just _wondering_ —

“Hey—” Stiles says, hopping up the steps to the porch, and then he doesn’t have to wonder anymore, because Derek is reaching out and grabbing his wrist, yanking him inside and slamming the door behind them. 

“Hi,” Stiles says, blinking fast, mouth dry. Derek’s nose is behind Stiles’ ear, moving to his throat, taking deep breaths in, and Stiles can feel Derek’s body rumbling warm and steady against his own. He tilts his head back. “Long—“ he starts, but he gets distracted by the wet pressure on his neck. “Boring day?” he tries, sinking into the wall against his back. 

“You were supposed to be here,” Derek says, low, face nudging at the v of Stiles’ shirt. Derek’s hair is spiky under Stiles’ palm, and Stiles isn’t sure when his hand ended up there, but he isn’t complaining, forces himself to stay relaxed when Derek pulls back to look at him. “Why weren’t you?” 

“I didn’t—“ Stiles says, hands petting at Derek’s bare arms. “I didn’t know—“ 

“You knew,” Derek says sharply, suddenly crowded into Stiles’ space again, “you knew you were supposed to be here,” and Stiles is the one taking deep breaths now, but it isn’t like it was before, it isn’t like it was when he was afraid he was going to hyperventilate himself into unconsciousness, it’s just a hit of Derek’s hair, of Derek’s skin, of _DerekDerekDerek_ , and when Stiles says, “I didn’t want—“ and Derek’s teeth snap closed around Stiles’ jugular, Stiles is lucky that Derek manages not to tear his throat out when Stiles shoves him onto the floor. 

He doesn’t really know what to do with Derek’s body under his, curling up to reach him, but their cocks are hard through their jeans, pressed close together, and Stiles is rocking down into Derek’s body, groaning, doing it anyway. 

Derek tries to control Stiles’ movement, tries to adjust their positions, but this is where Stiles wants to be, what he wants to feel, so he bites at Derek’s mouth angrily, leaves marks, makes it a warning, makes it red and raw until somehow they’re kissing and Stiles loses track of what he was doing. 

Derek flips Stiles onto his back, looming over him, scrabbling at his jeans. 

“Is this—“ Stiles asks, as the buttons give way and his skin prickles in the air. “Is it too close to the moon?” 

“No,” Derek says, shaking his head frantically, tugging Stiles’ jeans down his thighs. “It isn’t even the full moon Stiles, and even if it was it would be fine, it would be _fine_ —“ and then Derek’s mouth is around his cock and Stiles is surging up. 

“Fuck—“ he says, mind white and empty, but then Derek is swallowing around him, and that’s Derek’s _throat_ , that’s Derek’s throat _around his cock_ , and Stiles is bucking forwards, trying desperately to fuck Derek’s face, hands clawing at Derek’s scalp, and Derek is _letting_ him, Derek is holding him there, pulling him _closer_ , and when Derek makes a small, pleased noise and Stiles feels the vibration he explodes. 

It seems to take a long time, body aching and straining through the feeling, but he barely even remembers it afterwards, wrung-out on the floor, panting and sweating as Derek laps lazily at his soft cock. 

“So—“ he starts, with no idea of where he’s going to end, but then Derek does something that has his toes curling and high, needy noises coming out of his mouth, and Stiles thinks it might be better if he just doesn’t, not right now. 

He’s hard again by the time Derek takes his mouth away, sliding up Stiles’ body to kiss him again, pulling at Stiles’ clothing until it’s all gone. 

Stiles is a little bit lost in this, distracted by everything, by Derek’s tongue moving lushly inside his mouth, setting off sparks other places, by Derek’s tshirt rubbing against his chest, making Stiles’ nipples harden, by Derek, mostly just Derek—but he knows what’s happening here, so he says, “Do you have anything?” 

“Hmm?” Derek asks, sucking at Stiles’ tongue. 

“Better than lamp-oil,” Stiles says. 

“Oh,” Derek says, blinking back to reality, “No,” and he pulls away and stands up. 

“Hey,” Stiles objects, but Derek is pulling him up too, and for a second Stiles thinks Derek is going to lead him through the house by the hand, but then Derek drops it and Stiles is watching Derek peel his own clothes off as he walks, which is better anyway. 

Derek’s naked by the time they get to the kitchen, and Stiles is a man with both priorities and eyes, so it takes him a minute to notice the half-empty bottle of cooking oil Derek is holding out to him. 

“Seriously?” Stiles asks. What’s next, hair oil? Derek probably has that stashed around here somewhere. 

Derek shrugs. “I want to watch.” 

Which was not the question Stiles was asking, and Derek’s face changes as he gapes. 

“I’ll do it,” Derek says, hand falling slightly. 

Stiles reaches out to grab the bottle. “No, that’s—“ he says, mind racing, a mixture of fear and arousal jangling his nerves. 

A frown is starting to gather on Derek’s face, and Stiles wants that away, knows what will do it, so he gets down onto the floor again, juggling the plastic bottle, strange and awkward getting there while Derek watches. 

Derek’s going to _watch_ , Jesus. 

He touches his cock before he goes for the oil, and it jumps under the light brush of his fingers. 

“Christ,” he says, and snaps open the bottle. 

The oil is cool and startling against his skin, but it’s his fingers spreading it there and he knows what he’s doing, knows how to do this, so it’s okay, it’s all under control. There’s a strange dissonance as he teases and presses and pushes the way he always does as Derek stands over him, eyes tracking every shift and movement, but it still feels good and he’s the one who’s doing it, and then Derek is settling onto the floor beside Stiles, hand warm and secure around Stiles’ ankle, eyes wide and dark as he tilts his head to get a close-up of Stiles’ fingers deep inside, and Stiles starts making noise. 

It isn’t long before it’s enough, before it’s too much, Derek’s cheek on his knee, Derek’s fingers stroking the soft skin behind it, Stiles’ own fingers stroking somewhere more relevant, and it isn’t enough, it isn’t like it was last night, Derek’s tongue, Derek’s fingers, Derek’s cock, so Stiles pulls his fingers out, knocks Derek’s head from its perch and climbs on top of him. 

Derek is groaning before they’ve even done anything, and his fingers tighten painfully in Stiles’ hips once they do, but that just makes Stiles work himself down faster, until Derek’s cock is all the way inside and Stiles can rock his hips a little and feel the fading burn. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, voice rough. There are going to be more bruises later, Stiles knows. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, still moving, trying to make it feel like it did last night, when it was perfect and right. 

“Come on,” Derek says, and his shoulders come off the floor, so Stiles shoves them back down, holds him there as he moves frantically, not there yet. “Fuck, come—“ Derek says, but, “Fuck!” Stiles says, shudders, digs his knees into Derek’s sides and rocks and rocks to get that feeling again, to keep Derek right there, exactly where he wants him. 

He’s moaning, and he can feel Derek’s calves under his hands, doesn’t know how they got there but doesn’t care because it’s still right there, still what he needs, and then Derek is shoving hard into him, good and unexpected, and Stiles thinks he’s going to scream, thinks he’s going to come, and then he does. 

“Oh,” he says, after a minute, still feeling like spaghetti, but back enough to blink in bemusement at the come on Derek’s chest, spilling out to the sides. If that ends up on the floor it’s going to make a mess. Stiles doesn’t think Derek would like that. 

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek grits out, moving inside him again. 

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Right.” 

He puts his hands on Derek’s chest, lets them slip around until he finds a grip, and then he uses the leverage to work himself up Derek’s cock until Derek yanks him back down. He cries out, doesn’t quite know how it feels, but he doesn’t think it’s going to take much, so he does it again and again, and then Derek is howling underneath him and bucking so hard that Stiles’ leg slides out to the side and sends the empty bottle of oil skittering across the kitchen floor. 

“We have got to get some real lube next time,” Stiles says, and then he hears the words that just came out of his mouth. 

Derek is still panting below him when Stiles forces himself upright on shaky legs. He steps on Derek’s stomach along the way, but Derek barely seems to notice, just grabs Stiles’ ankle to steady him. 

“So, this was a mistake,” Stiles says, kicking off Derek’s hand as it tightens around the bone. “Right?” 

Derek rises to his feet, and Stiles isn’t distracted by Derek’s nakedness or anything dumb like that, but it makes him aware of his own, and he starts hunting for his clothes before he remembers where Derek left them and starts walking back through the house, trying not to think about the view he’s giving Derek. 

“It wasn’t unexpected,” Derek says, close enough that Stiles startles, and when he spins around his shoulder brushes against Derek and he stumbles, and although he takes a quick step back it isn’t fast enough to avoid Derek’s hands, reaching out to offer support. 

He’s annoyed with them both when he says, “It was! It was unexpected!” 

He’s frightened, too, though he doesn’t know why or what of; that makes it worse, maybe. 

“You know what we are,” Derek says. “How could it have been a surprise.” 

_That_. Even if Stiles has no reason to be afraid of Derek, he can be afraid of _that_ , has fear and reason both, and, “Stop looking at me like that!” he says, and Derek drops his hands. “Like I’m the one who’s being ridiculous here, like I’m just supposed to—“ 

“You are,” Derek says. “It isn’t a choice, Stiles, you _are_. You are already.” 

“Well, I’m not,” Stiles says. “I’m not going to!” 

And he expects Derek to fight, snarl and rage, but he watches him withdraw instead. 

“You’re going to,” Derek says flatly. 

“Make me.” Stiles knows he won’t; there’s no reason for his pulse to be jumping in his throat. 

“No,” Derek says, stepping past him and picking up his tshirt, holding it out to him. 

That doesn’t sound like capitulation, so Stiles snatches his clothing and yanks it on quickly. It’s stretched out, seams fraying, but it’s whole. 

“Then we’re agreed,” Stiles says defiantly. “That’s settled.” 

Derek reaches down to grab Stiles’ jeans next, and those Stiles really wants. 

“It is. You’re going to have to accept it.” 

“Whatever,” Stiles mutters, and he wants the jeans enough that he steps forward into Derek’s space to get them. 

Derek doesn’t let go. “I’m sorry this isn’t what you want,” he says, “but that doesn’t change anything.” 

Stiles has a lot of fights he wants to start there, but Derek releases the jeans and Stiles starts struggling into them instead. 

“Why are you getting dressed?” Derek asks. 

“Because I’m naked!” 

“So am I.” 

“Yeah, I did notice.” Derek is silent, watching him, so, “Don’t be stupid,” Stiles huffs, feeling more sure of himself now that he’s doing up his buttons, all covered up again. 

“Is there a reason you want to be dressed?” 

“No.” Stiles isn’t willing to admit to any discomfort when Derek is still standing naked in front of him, asking him stupid questions, hands loose at his sides. “I mean, that’s self-explanatory, dude!” 

“Do you have anywhere you need to be?” 

“No. I mean, maybe. Probably. You don’t know!” 

“Are you going to leave?” 

“No!” Stiles says, stops, but can’t take it back because it’s still true. 

“Then why are you getting dressed?” 

Derek actually seems to be confused by this, but that doesn’t prevent Stiles from wanting to punch his stupid face in. He contents himself with throwing his eyes up to the ceiling in frustration, still able to feel Derek’s gaze, still twitching on the pin. 

“Because clothes are these things people wear, you may have heard of them, and we don’t have the kind of relationship where we wander around the house naked together.” Derek’s eyebrows start to rise, but Stiles says, “We _don’t_ , we just—we just had to do this, this isn’t what we want, this isn’t who we are.” 

“It is now,” Derek says. 

“No. That isn’t what’s going to happen.” Derek looks mutinous, but Stiles continues, “It’s done, right? You said. So we don’t have to do anything else, we don’t actually have to have sex anymore, we just _did_.” 

“Yes,” Derek says after a minute. “I mean, no.” 

“What?” Stiles asks. “Why are you looking like that, what?” 

“Until I go into heat,” Derek says. 

“That’s great, that’s fantastic, but you’re not in heat right now, right, so we don’t have to.” Derek doesn’t rebut, which Stiles takes as complete agreement, or at least reluctant acknowledgement that Stiles is technically correct. “And I know I just did and I’m sorry, but that was a mistake, that wasn’t what—this isn’t what I want, this isn’t something I can do.” 

Stiles can see Derek turning responses to that over in his head, but in the end he doesn’t settle on one, so Stiles says, “This isn’t something I’m going to do.” 

Derek’s jaw is clenched, but he nods jerkily, because Stiles does actually have a choice about this now. Derek was never the person who was going to take that away from him. 

“You won’t—“ Derek says, then reconsiders. “Fine, let’s see how you get on with that.” 

“Great,” Stiles says, relieved. “Great, that’s great, that’s—“ 

“Are you going to leave?” Derek interrupts. 

“No!” Stiles says. “I mean, do you want me to?” 

Maybe he does; maybe he only wanted Stiles here because he thought Stiles was willing to go all in; maybe he was only tolerating Stiles’ presence because he thought he had to, and now he doesn’t. 

But no. No, that wasn’t what it was like at all, that wasn’t what Derek was like, nothing about that smacked of _imposition_ , but—

“No,” Derek says. “No, I don’t want you to leave.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says, relieved anew. “Good.” 

He doesn’t know why he wants to stay, there’s no reason he should, like there was no reason he was spending the afternoon kicking back at home, waiting for day to end, waiting for it to be time to go to Derek, and it isn’t even the full moon, that doesn’t make any sense, none of this makes any _sense_. In fact, he decides angrily, he _doesn’t_ want to stay, he just doesn’t want Derek to want him gone, and Derek doesn’t, so maybe he’ll just be heading out. 

“I’m just going to turn once the moon rises,” Derek says. “Can you keep yourself entertained?” 

“Uh, what?” Stiles asks. 

“Did you bring homework or a book or anything? You have something in your car, right?” 

“It isn’t the full moon.” 

“I try and turn for the night a couple of days either side,” Derek says. “It’s easier for me now—easier than staying in human form around the moon—and the more frequently I stay transformed for long periods the better. I get stronger every time.” 

“It gets easier the more you do it,” Stiles says. “The longer you stay a wolf the easier—the more—“ 

“Yes,” Derek says, without offering any reassurance. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, “okay,” and goes out to the car to get his econ textbook. 

*

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [My chest is full of chains (quick, throw away the key)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/487812) by [inteligrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inteligrrl/pseuds/inteligrrl)




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